Although my mother protected me by forbidding me from participating in most of the work on the farm, I was allowed some duties. One of those duties was the farm’s defense against critters. Woodchucks loved to eat the bark off our cherry trees and burrow into the barns. By the time I was 11 or 12 years old, I was taught how to shoot a rifle and sent out into the orchards to hunt woodchucks. Life and death on a farm seemed routine. Over time I became an excellent shot and skillful hunter. I would tiptoe through the rows of trees, watching for movement. Then I would usually be able to take out the critter with one shot.
I enjoyed the challenge. One missed shot and all the woodchucks would scurry into their holes and hide until dark. Also, I can not begin to explain the excitement one feels hunting. It is primal and self-reinforcing. There is a thrill to it that makes you feel incredibly powerful.
One day, while relishing in this power, and not seeing any woodchucks, I decided to shoot a bird. I have no explanation for this, other than I was a kid with the power of life and death in my hands. Regretably, the first bullet did not kill it. With my second shot, the damn thing exploded. I believe the bullets must have collided. I was shocked and disgusted at what I had just done. I starred at it for a time, then had the impulse to hide it. I was ashamed.
I suspect that was the last time I went hunting in the orchard. After that I left it to our hired man, Oscar, to do the hunting. I was left remembering the power of carrying that gun, and the potential horror that accompanied it. Decades later, I still have that rifle. The next time a town offers one of those money for guns program, I’m cashing it in. Now when I think of it, I remember a quote attributed to Winnicott, “If children had guns, we’d all be dead.” https://soundcloud.com/kellymegan17/newtown-angels
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